The Burning

Mark Solis woke up with a splitting headache and a mouth sour from the whiskey he took last night.

He groaned, dragging himself off the couch where he’d passed out hours ago. He scratched his rough jaw, his eyes heavy. His stomach made a loud noise. He needed a drink. No, he needed several drinks. And maybe a card game at Benny’s if he could scrape together enough cash.

He stumbled to his feet, scratching his beards. It was itchy. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shaved. Or showered. Or cared.

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

“Mireya?” he called out.

Nothing.

He checked the kitchen. Empty. The bedroom. Also empty. She’d already left for work, taking the kid with her to school or wherever the hell six-year-olds went during the day.

Good. That made this easier.

Mark moved through the house with a singular purpose, yanking open drawers, rifling through cabinets. She always hid money somewhere. She thought she was clever. Thought he didn’t notice.

He pulled open the drawer beside the bed. Socks. Underwear. Nothing.

He checked the closet. Behind the shoeboxes. Under the folded blankets.

Nothing.

“Come on,” he muttered, slamming the closet door.

Then he remembered.

The dresser. Bottom drawer. Left side.

He dropped to his knees and yanked it open. Pushed aside old sweaters and scarves until his fingers hit something solid.

An envelope.

He pulled it out, ripped it open.

Cash. A thick stack of bills.

“Are you kidding me, he said it grinning”

He didn’t count it. Didn’t care how much it was or what she’d been saving it for. Rent, probably. Or groceries. Or some other boring, responsible thing.

Not his problem.

He stuffed the envelope into his back pocket, grabbed his jacket, and walked out the door.

--------------------

Mireya didn’t stop running until she reached the eighth floor.

Her lungs burned. Her legs were shaking. She stumbled through the hallway, past cubicles and confused coworkers, until she spotted the supply closet at the end of the hall.

She shoved the door open and slipped inside, slamming it shut behind her. She twisted the lock with her shaking fingers.

She pressed her back against the wall, gasping for air. Her hands trembled violently. Her mind replayed the image again and again, Lucien’s fangs, sharp and inhuman, glinting under his office lights as he held that lady’s neck like prey.

Her heart was beating so hard she thought it might burst through her ribs.

Fangs. She’d seen fangs. Real ones. On her boss.

She was pacing, He’s a vampire?? Do vampires even exist? My boss…..CEO?

She slid down the wall until she was sitting on the cold floor, knees pulled to her chest. The smell of cleaning supplies surrounded her. Bleach. Ammonia.

“Jesus,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. “Jesus, please. Please help me.”

Her voice cracked.

She closed her eyes,tried to breathe. Tried to think.

But all she could see were those eyes. Pale. Predatory. Locked on hers.

“Oh, he’s in his kingdom.”

Mireya’s eyes snapped open.

The voice came from directly in front of her.

Low. Smooth. Amused.

She looked up.

Lucien Vale stood in the center of the closet, hands in his pockets, head slightly bent to the side. He hadn't been there a second ago. She checked the door, they were still locked. He’d just appeared.

“He’s not coming to save you,” Lucien finished.

Mireya scrambled backward, her shoulders hitting shelves. Bottles rattled. Something fell and rolled across the floor.

“No,” she choked out. “No, no, no.”

Lucien took one slow step forward.

“You ran,” he said, almost conversational. “I like that. Makes it more fun.”

“Stay away from me,” she whispered.

Lucien began walking toward her. Slow, controlled steps from a man who looked barely twenty-eight, not the 300 year old vampire.

“Please,” she cried out. “Please, please…. I swear I won’t say anything, I won’t tell anyone, just let me go….”

He bent down in front of her, bringing himself to her level. His eyes were still pale. Still cold. But now there was something else in them. Curiosity. Hunger.

“What’s your name?” he asked. His voice was like the calm before a storm, deep, low, but commanding.

She pressed herself harder against the wall, as if she could disappear into it.

“I said, what’s your name?”

“M-Mireya,” she stammered.

He smiled. Not kind. Not warm. Just satisfied.

“No,” he said softly. “I’ll call you mama.”

Her breath stopped.

He reached out, his hand moving toward her neck. She flinched, but there was nowhere to go.

His fingers hovered just above her skin.

And then he touched her.

The reaction was instant.

Lucien hissed, jerking his hand back. Smoke rose from his fingertips. His skin blistered red, as though he had touched fire instead of a woman, then faded just as quickly.

He stared at his hand. Then at her.

“What the hell are you?” he muttered.

Mireya didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her throat had closed up.

Lucien’s expression changed. He leaned in closer, his eyes shifting. The pale gray bled into something darker. Something green and glowing.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

His voice wrapped around her like a chain. Heavy. Inescapable.

She tried to look away, but her gaze snapped back to his. Against her will.

“Forget,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “Forget what you saw in my office. Forget the fangs. Forget all of it.”

You came to work today, did all your duties and went back home. “His eyes were wide opened

Mireya blinked.

And then she frowned.

“What?” she whispered. Did something enter your eyes?

Lucien’s eyes widened. Just slightly. Just enough.

“Forget,” he repeated, harder this time. “You didn’t see anything. You came upstairs, dropped off files, and left. That’s all.”

Mireya shook her head slowly.

“No,” she said. “I saw you. I saw your fangs. I saw….”

“That’s not possible,” Lucien interrupted.

“Let me go,” she whimpered.

“I can’t touch you, and now I can't compel you?” he asked, his voice soft now. Dangerous. “What are you hiding from me, mama?”

Tears burned her eyes.

Lucien released her suddenly, standing upright. He stared down at her, breathing hard. His hand was red again. Blistered. Healing.

He turned toward the door.

“My office. Five minutes.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “Don’t make me come get you, baby.”

And then he was gone.

The door swung shut.

Mireya sat frozen on the floor, her body shaking uncontrollably.

Because she knew one thing for certain now.

Lucien Vale wasn’t human.

And he wasn’t going to let her go.

“Your hands are shaking,” he murmured, ignoring the pain. “You scared of me… or what I make you feel?”

“Let me go,” she whimpered.

“Why can’t I touch you?” he asked, his voice soft now. Dangerous. “What are you hiding from me, mama?”

Tears burned her eyes.

Lucien released her suddenly, stepping back. He stared down at his hand. Red. Blistered. Healing.

For a moment, he said nothing. Just stood there, processing.

And in that moment, Mireya saw her chance.

She ran.

She shoved past him, threw the door open, and ran. Her heels pounded against the tile as she tore down the hallway. She didn’t look back. Didn’t breathe. Just ran.

Lucien stood alone in the darkness, staring at his hand.

The burn was already gone. Skin smooth. Unmarked.

But the question remained.

“What are you?” he whispered to the empty room.

She’d resisted compulsion. No human could do that. No one.

And for the first time in three hundred years, Lucien Vale smiled.

Because he’d just found something impossible.

A human who burned him.

Something he needed to understand.

Something he needed to own.